• She clings to me like a fine mist,
    like the heat from a shower
    like a trembling caress
    much like a soul I could never own,
    like a shirt that was too baggy,
    like a heart that beat too strong.
    She dances on the outside,
    in the corners of my vision
    as if she’s waiting,
    riding on the hem of my shirt,
    a drifting thought
    of how things were when she –
    that Shadow, that Ghost –
    was actually me.
    A sway of the hips in a crowded room,
    blue eye-shadow and painted lips
    and all the confidence in the world.
    A static cling of discomfort.
    A lonely soul without a soul.
    The One of me I left